


Vow of Silence

by prozacplease



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Catholic Guilt, Christianity, Crusades, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/pseuds/prozacplease
Summary: Diarmuid loves him like he loves God. Deeply and inexplicably.





	Vow of Silence

Diarmuid feels closest to God during Matins, the earliest prayer. It's there in the darkness, mind still fuzzy from sleep, that he shares his greatest devotion. His tired eyes squint against the torchlight in the church, so he lets them slide closed as he chants along with his brothers. Only one is missing and that is who he prays the hardest for. 

Diarmuid prays for many things. He thanks God for an exhaustive list of blessings and then he begins making his humble requests. Every night, he asks God to bring comfort to his friend, the nameless mute the monastery has taken in as a lay brother. 

The sky is clear and the moon is high when they leave the tiny church and walk across the cloister to their cells. It's a small bit of privacy in an otherwise communal life. Diarmuid pulls back the heavy, tattered curtain that acts as a doorway to his tiny sleeping quarters. Inside, there isn't room for anything beyond a pallet and a small chest that contains his few earthly possessions. 

Sleep is dragging at him and he is quick to burrow under his blankets and furs. He is nearly asleep again when the curtain is disturbed. At first, Diarmuid thinks it's one of the barn cats coming for a snuggle. They learned learned long ago that Diarmuid is a soft touch and will let them enjoy his body heat. 

But this shape in his doorway is much bigger than a cat. He sits up on his elbow and sees it's the mute. 

“What's wrong?” Diarmuid asks. His soft and boyish voice is edged with concern. 

There's no reply. There never is. Instead there is movement, and suddenly the man is crawling into bed with him. His breathing is harsh and his body is trembling. Diarmuid moves to make room without a second thought. 

“Come here,” Diarmuid says. He knows the answer but he asks the question all the same. “Nightmare?” 

Diarmuid does not know of the horrors that replay behind his eyelids each night, but the whisperings of his brothers have supplied him with many ideas. The mute isn't the only one at the monastery to have seen the Crusades. 

This is the reason why he was so readily accepted by the brothers and put to work where he was needed. There has been only one thing he couldn't do. 

Brother Ciarán sent the mute to help the cellarer butcher some animals. An easy enough task, they thought, for the man who hadn't yet refused a job. But the mute turned pale when he was asked to bleed a pair of hogs, and his hands shook so badly that the cellarer snatched the knife from him. 

Diarmuid was scraping a hide nearby, eavesdropping, when Ciarán strode across the yard. 

“A knight who can't slaughter a pig? What good is he to us?” the cellarer asked. 

“Perhaps he's weary of spilling blood,” Ciarán said evenly. “There's plenty else for him to do, brother.”

Without another word about the incident, he sent Diarmuid and the mute to look for berries instead.

Diarmuid thinks about this as he pulls the blankets over them both. One of his hands rests on the mute’s side and he takes that as his invitation to snuggle in close. Diarmuid welcomes the warmth. 

“It's all right, sleep now,” Diarmuid murmurs. “You're safe here. Always.”

It takes some time, but the man's breathing finally evens out and the tension leaves his body. He wraps an arm around Diarmuid’s slight frame, signaling rest. But Diarmuid is the one who feels safe, his head tucked under the mute's chin. 

When Diarmuid rises for the next early morning prayer, the mute is gone. He dreamed someone kissed him on the forehead. Perhaps it was his mother, long dead from the fever that nearly killed him too. But it felt more concrete than a kiss in a dream. 

Diarmuid has to concentrate during this prayer. The sun is coming up, signaling another day he can spend with his friend. It doesn't matter if they're mucking the stable or gathering seaweed or scrubbing clothes against rocks. Diarmuid just enjoys the company of the mute. 

After breakfast, he finds the mute in the small stable, already at work on the ponies. They're both fat, shaggy beasts that show their affection for the man by nibbling at his shirt and hair. He takes time to pet them and kiss their snouts. Diarmuid wonders if he misses the draft horse he once rode into battle.

Diarmuid lingers outside, watching as the man prepares to tend them. One has gone lame and a bad hoof is suspected. The mute gives a pat to the pony’s rump to let him know he's behind it. There is an array of tools laid out, along with new horseshoes and nails. It makes Diarmuid a little queasy to watch him use a sharp tool to scrape out the soft part of the pony's hoof, although he knows it's normally painless. The pony shifts around, ears laid back, but the mute persists in silence. It's there he finds a small, sharp rock that has wedged itself into the flesh.

The dogs come running when they hear the hooves being trimmed. Diarmuid helps distribute the clippings for the them to chew on. Even with the rock gone and new shoes put on, the pony remains defiantly lame. 

“He might need a day or two,” Diarmuid surmises. He will have to be the one to relay this information to the others. “Perhaps Brother Ciarán can make a poultice.” 

There's a few hours until the next prayer, and Diarmuid is thrilled when Ciarán sends them off to collect herbs instead of calling him inside to study Latin. Diarmuid is trusted to find the right plants while the mute is trusted to keep an eye on him. They never venture too far into the trees that become a deep forest. There are heathens there, ones who still worship their old gods and smear themselves in blue paint. 

Diarmuid grew up hearing tales of these people but he's never known any sort of violence from them. The monastery is so isolated that it is a rare occasion to even receive a pilgrim wanting to visit the relic. 

“I wonder how far these woods go,” Diarmuid says. He kneels to gather some plants. After a short pause he adds, “You've seen the world and I've never been more than a day from the monastery.”

The mute says nothing, but Diarmuid knows he listens. The one-sided conversations were strange at first. Diarmuid asked a lot of questions and he never received answers. But now the mute is his favorite person to talk to. He never tells Diarmuid that he talks too much or that his ideas are silly. He doesn't give advice, but he doesn't pass judgement either. 

Diarmuid chatters on while he places bundles of herbs in a basket. The mute is keeping watch, looking off into the trees. Slowly, Diarmuid runs out of things to say. He grows quiet for a while, then turns to humming softly to himself. Engrossed in picking herbs, he doesn't notice that he and the mute are edging apart from each other. 

It's some time before he says something, looks up, and realizes that he's alone. Diarmuid can't see where the trees thin out into the rolling hills, the only point of reference he has for finding his way out of the forest. 

He stands up, wincing at the stiff spot in his back as he dusts off his hands. The forest is so dense that he can't smell the sea anymore. There is only the wet scent of dirt and decaying leaves. He thinks to call out for the mute, but he has no name. 

Diarmuid turns around to the sight of more trees. Not unusual in a forest, but the trunk directly in front of him has markings. Made of three points with a swirl on each end, it is no symbol or rune he recognizes. It's intricately carved and, despite the soft curves, looks foreign and foreboding. 

He rightly assumes the marking denotes a holding of territory and he turns away from it. Before him is another warning, this one much more obvious. A fox carcass is hanging from the low branches of the tree. Once bright and cunning eyes are glazed over, and the body is limp. Diarmuid's heart starts to race. He's never seen such an ugly sight before—a beautiful animal wasted like this—and he doesn't want to meet the people who created it.

He snatches up his basket of herbs, not about to leave behind his spoils. In that exact same instant, the silence of the wood is broken by the scream of an animal—a rabbit or some other helpless creature meeting its end by fang or talon. Diarmuid bolts blindly and his dash is interrupted by him running right into the trunk of a tree. 

The next thing he knows, he can't breathe. His nose is blocked and he chokes several times before he takes a sharp gasp through his mouth. He tastes blood. 

The mute is above him, eyes wide and worried. Diarmuid's bloody nose is pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It sounds like another person when he says, “The fox—”

Its soft, fiery pelt matted with blood is all that comes to mind when the mute starts to help him to his feet. He too is bloodied, but his dark robes show nothing but wet spots. 

There are no words of comfort or concern from the mute. However, Diarmuid can feel it in his touch. He stands there, aching and perplexed as the man feels his head and neck, no doubt checking for more serious injuries. 

“I'm fine,” Diarmuid insists, using his cowl to dab at the blood he can feel trickling from his nose. 

But the mute sees the lie, recognizes the daze from a knock to the head. He takes Diarmuid's arm and doesn't let go of it until they reach the monastery. 

Diarmuid has the wherewithal to feel embarrassed and he spends the entire walk trying to formulate an explanation that sounds better than the truth. He'll never hear the end of the time he knocked himself senseless by running into a tree… But his thoughts keep returning to the peculiar symbol and the dead fox. 

Diarmuid's head is pounding when Ciarán and the mute put him to bed, and it's hard to tell the story in a way that conveys the terror he felt. The mute keeps his eyes on the floor, no doubt ashamed for not watching over the young monk as he should have. 

But Ciarán lays no blame. “I should have known you'd dash yourself against a tree or fall into a ravine,” he sighs. “Be careful with yourself, would you? You're fortunate you only saw an offering and not the heathen who made it.” 

“Yes, brother.” 

“Clean him up and see that he rests,” Ciarán says to the mute. 

The mute fetches water and a clean cloth. Diarmuid doesn't want to be fussed over, but he tolerates having his face and neck washed. 

“I'm sorry.”

The mute frowns, dark eyebrows set in consternation as he dabs at Diarmuid's chin. 

“For scaring you,” he clarifies. “It feels foolish, but at the time… I was so frightened.” 

The lack of response doesn't comfort Diarmuid this time. He's empty and trembling without the painful swell of adrenaline in his chest. 

The mute dries Diarmuid's face and leaves. It's still daylight and he supposes there is other work to be done. Perhaps he will feel better if he closes his eyes and wills the pain away. 

Diarmuid is trying to do just that when the mute returns with his own blankets and furs. He builds up a nest around Diarmuid, not unlike a child making fruitless efforts to take care of an injured bird. 

“You'll stay?” Diarmuid asks. 

He reaches out and puts a hand on the mute's shoulder. There's a flicker of something in those eyes, masked by a pleading softness. Diarmuid's hand slides up the mute's neck, fingertips quickly finding the start of his wiry beard. The mute is stiff, like he wants to turn away. Diarmuid pauses. 

“No?” 

He starts to withdraw his hand but the mute tilts his head, chasing the touch. Diarmuid cups the side of his face and smiles when the mute's eyes slide closed.

“Just a nap,” Diarmuid promises. 

The mute obliges, climbing under the covers to be next to Diarmuid. He traces a thumb across the mute's cheekbone, runs a hand through his dark hair. They have never touched like this, but it feels right somehow. 

“You make me feel safe, you know,” Diarmuid murmurs. 

The mute wraps his arms around him, his face buried against Diarmuid's chest. Diarmuid can think only to place a kiss on the top of the mute's head, which he does with reverence. 

Diarmuid doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's swimming up from the blackness, hot and stiff between his legs. He feels a mixture of excitement and shame, but all his feelings are shattered against the sudden sensation of a kiss on his mouth. There is another and another, all of them soft and sweet. Diarmuid kisses back—a clumsy reciprocation against a more experienced mouth. 

There is no thought of sin aside from the faraway feelings of shame. All of that will come later, during long hours of prayer. For now that space is taken up by a thigh against his crotch. And suddenly Diarmuid is trembling and gasping and hot all over. The mute holds him through it, like he might rattle to pieces. But Diarmuid is whole in the end. There is peace within this secret, a silent sanctity between their bodies. 

Diarmuid loves him like he loves God. Deeply and inexplicably. It's strongest in the darkness, just after he's awoken.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://www.prozacplease.tumblr.com)
> 
> ♥ Comments are always appreciated. ♥


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